Through the Years (We'll Always Be Together)
by The Yankee Countess
Summary: Time continues...as does Love. No matter the place, no matter the time...some people will always find each other. Part of the Sybil/Tom Valentine Exchange, fanfic for the-she-celt.


_WHOO! Here it is! FINALLY, my fic for the Sybil/Tom Valentine Exchange (only a week late) *looks down sheepishly* For that I do apologize, especially to "my S/T valentine" **the-she-celt** who has been so patiently waiting (thanks sweetie!)._

_HER PROMPT: something historical, and fluffy, with angsty-romantic feels, and adventure, and espionage, with elements of fantasy, and oh yes, SMUT. Well, I hope this delivers! :oD _

_Thank you for reading, and for your continued support in my writing! And a special thank you to everyone who participated in this year's Valentine Exchange! Thanks for sharing your talents, and thanks to all the readers who encourage both myself and other writers to keep doing what we do and celebrating this wonderful couple. I hope you enjoy and Happy Valentine's Day (no matter the time of year!)_

_**cover art by angiemagz_

* * *

**Through The Years (We'll Always Be Together)**  
_**by The Yankee Countess**_

_a valentine fic for  
the-she-celt_

_February 14  
Today_

"I can't believe I have to work today of all days!" Fiona fumed as she entered the pub's kitchen, angrily tying her apron around her waist.

The only other waitress who was present looked up at her friend's dramatic entrance, and despite her tone, couldn't help but grin. "Big date tonight?"

Fiona rolled her eyes. "No, but…that doesn't mean I want to work on Valentine's Day," she muttered. "Actually, I had a lovely evening planned out; me, a bottle of red, curry from my favorite take-away, and Chris Evans. But thanks to Bridget," Fiona grumbled the name of the absent waitress, "I'm here instead."

"It's not like she asked to get sick—"

Fiona snorted at that, clearly not buying Bridget's excuse. "She's probably out with that new fella of hers; having all the sex I should be having if Capt. America were a real person."

Sybil couldn't help but laugh at that.

Fiona eyed her colleague and friend curiously. "Why are _you_ here? Didn't you work till closing last night?"

Sybil just shrugged her shoulders. "I don't mind; Dublin may not be as expensive as London, but every little bit helps when it comes to paying rent."

"Remind me again why your Da who is _rolling in it,_ won't pick up the tab?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "One, despite his title, my father isn't 'rolling in it' like he may wish people to think, two, my family wasn't ecstatic that I insisted on going to Trinity. Though as far as my grandmother is concerned, it could be worse; I could have gone to America!"

"Oh heaven forbid," Fiona chuckled.

Sybil grinned and gave another shrug of her shoulders. "And three, even if he were willing to pay…I prefer doing it myself…living my life on my terms." Though it remained unsaid, Sybil also knew that if her father were paying for everything, she would be "beholden" to him, or at the very least made to feel like she was. "Besides," she concluded at last. "I didn't have any 'grand plans' for my Valentine's night."

"What about Colin? You know he's been keen on you for several months, and he's not bad looking."

Sybil smiled politely at the mention of their mutual friend, but shook her head. "He's nice, but…I don't know, I'm just not really looking to date someone at the moment."

"Who said anything about dating? Just take him home for a good shag."

Sybil practically stumbled at Fiona's words, who gave her a wink before peeking out at the pub through the window in the kitchen doors. "Oh no…"

Sybil turned to Fiona and her brow quickly furrowed at the other waitress' tone. "What?"

Fiona groaned and leaned against the wall. "My ex is out there."

Sybil frowned and looked out at the pub. "Who?"

"Him," Fiona muttered. "The one with the beard—Kieran Branson," she muttered the name with obvious disdain.

Sybil looked back at Fiona with curious eyes. Something about that name sounded…oddly familiar…

"Ugh, I can't do this, I am in no mood for drama tonight," she muttered.

Sybil straightened her apron and patted Fiona on the shoulder. "I'll take their table," she told her friend. "You cover my area on the opposite end; hopefully he won't notice."

Fiona looked so grateful. "I'll name my first born after you…that is, of course, if Chris Evans ever accepts my marriage proposal."

Sybil laughed and shook her head, before putting on a calm face and leaving the kitchen, making her way over to the table where Fiona had pointed. There were several men sitting there, all of them laughing and clearly having a good time. They already had their drinks, no doubt purchased from the bar before finding a table to sit. Sybil retrieved her notepad and pen, putting on a smile as she approached. "Hello gents," she greeted, used to the surprised expressions she always received when people first heard her _"posh English accent"_ as Fiona called it. "Can I take your order?"

The bearded one whom Fiona identified as "Kieran" began speaking, but as far as Sybil was concerned, the world simply melted away.

…Because her eyes were drawn to the man on Kieran's right, a man who a few short minutes ago had been laughing loudly, but who now stared up at her with wide-eyes and a pale face, his mouth hanging open as if he were going to say something, but no sound was coming out…

Sybil stared back at the man, her breathing seeming to have stopped while her heartbeat quickened. Her own mouth fell open like his, yet also like him, no sound came out.

"Um…hello?" The man named Kieran was looking at her oddly. "Are you getting any of this?" It wasn't until one of the men tentatively touched her elbow that she was jolted back to the present.

Sybil gasped and nearly stumbled backwards, but the same man who had touched her elbow also gripped her arm to keep her from falling. "Are you alright, love?"

Sybil swallowed and looked at the man who had spoken, before looking at the other men around the table, including Kieran, before finally returning her gaze to the man whose presence had startled her so. He was rising from his chair, his eyes filled with shock, concern, and…something else.

"I…" Sybil found herself stammering. "I…I…I…" she couldn't formulate any other words. Strange images, like visions out of a story, began to fill her mind and the room suddenly seemed to be spinning. Shaking her arm free from the man who had steadied her, she turned from the table and without a backwards glance rushed back to the kitchen, not even pausing to stop once she was through its doors or at Fiona's concerned call. She kept moving, not even bothering to remove her apron, just kept moving, grabbing her coat and purse that hung near the back door before stumbling out into the alley behind the pub.

She moved several feet, clutching her coat and purse to her body, until finally she felt herself collapse back against a brick wall, closing her eyes and taking several long, deep breaths, trying her hardest to calm her rapidly beating heart.

…The world continued to spin, even with her eyes closed. The images persisted, becoming clearer, as if they were playing out right before her.

Something was happening…

Or rather…something _had_ happened.

* * *

_Yorkshire, 1206_

The ordeal was over. Gone were the soiled rags, the bowls of steaming water, the various tools that the midwife had used. Clean sheets had been put on the bed, and the new mother had been given a new shift to wear. The sweat and tears had been wiped away and her hair had been combed, yet there was still a somewhat disheveled appearance about her.

As if she cared about any of that. Her focus was entirely drawn to the tiny bundle cradled in her arms, whose little mouth, which earlier had been screaming upon entering the cold, bright world, was now sleepily yawning.

She hadn't thought it possible. When she learned of her pregnancy, and then during the nine months she had carried her child…she hadn't thought it possible that she could love this little being any more than she already did. But she was wrong.

"Shall I take her for you, milady?"

Lady Sybil looked up at the voice of her maid, suddenly surprised to see how empty the room was. When had everybody left? Earlier her chamber was filled with half a dozen maids, bustling in and out with fresh rags and kettles of water, while the midwife sat hunched between her legs, instructing her to push while Sybil gasped and groaned and screamed in pain.

But as she looked once again at her daughter's sleeping face, Sybil knew she would gladly endure all that pain again.

"Milady?"

Sybil was drawn back to the present once again, and found herself shaking her head at her maid. "No…no, not…not yet," she murmured, looking down at her daughter once more.

Her maid simply gave a little curtsey and an obedient, "yes, milady", before turning to leave mother and daughter alone at last. However, before her maid disappeared, Sybil gasped and with wide eyes called out, "WAIT!"

Her maid froze and looked back at her mistress with concern.

"Where is…" Sybil swallowed and tried to bring some calmness back to her voice. "…My husband; has word been sent to him yet?"

Her maid glanced out the chamber door then, into the dark corridor just beyond. "I think your escort is waiting to deliver word—shall I send him in?"

Sybil sat up a little straighter and nodded her head. "Yes, yes please."

Her maid smiled, and if Sybil didn't know any better, she would say that the smile was quite…"knowing", but her maid was the soul of discretion, and so whatever she knew (or thought she knew) she kept quietly to herself.

"Of course, milady," her maid curtsied once again, and then disappeared out the door. For several agonizing seconds, Sybil sat in her bed, cradling the sleeping child in her arms and waiting with bated breath, until finally the door opened once more…revealing not her maid, but the very knight whom she had gone to fetch.

Poor man, he looked ragged. There were large, dark circles under his eyes; he clearly hadn't slept for who knows how long. He had the look of a man on the brink of madness, yet the second his eyes found hers, the tension in his muscles gave way at last, and his whole body seemed to sag with relief as a great breath escaped his lungs.

Sybil smiled, and her heart leapt at the smile he returned. But then his focus shifted to the bundle in her arms, and suddenly he was tense again, his eyes widening and his face paling as he gazed at the child she held.

Sybil looked down at her daughter, and shifted the baby just slightly so he could see her.

His breath caught in his throat, and Sybil felt her own breath catch at the tears she could see glistening in his eyes. He took a tentative step towards her, but stopped himself and looked over his shoulder at the door.

"It's alright," Sybil whispered. "We'll not be disturbed."

The knight turned back and looked at her for a moment, then at the child, then back at her…and within three strides, he was kneeling before them both, his face buried in the blankets that covered her legs, weeping openly and releasing the tension that she knew he had been keeping bottled up inside him ever since it was announced that she was in labor.

With one hand still holding her daughter, Sybil reached forward…and let her free hand stroke the shaggy mane that was his hair. "It's alright," she soothed. _"We're_ alright," she assured him. He lifted his face at her words, his tears still evident in his eyes and on his cheeks. But a smile was slowly spreading across his lips…and he rose up then, and leaned forward, neither of them caring if anyone saw them as at long last, their lips met in a deep, desperate kiss.

Sybil clung to her knight, her free hand clutching his tunic and pulling him against her, their kiss lasting until the need for oxygen forced them to separate. But they still remained close, their brows touching and breathing the other in.

"I was so afraid…" he murmured, his Irish brogue thick with emotion.

"I know," Sybil whispered, her lips brushing softly against his own. "I know," she repeated. "I'm sorry you had to wait; I wish you could have been here, I wanted you here—"

"I wanted to be here too," he confessed, taking her free hand in both of his and bringing it to his lips, tenderly kissing each and every knuckle. "Though I would have been more of a hindrance than a help," he sighed. "I heard you screaming from the other end of the castle…I thought my heart would rip in two."

Sybil brought her free hand to his face, running her fingers over his bearded cheek. His skin was rough, weathered from exposure to the summer sun and the winter wind, and scarred from the many battles he had fought and survived. Yet no face could be more handsome, and no set of eyes could captivate her so. And when she had first heard his voice, being introduced to him by her husband on their wedding day as her personal escort who would see to her protection and guard her life at all costs…Sybil felt as if she were being awoken after a lifetime of slumber…and her heartbeat quickened and her blood became heated.

Her gallant champion, her brave hero, her Irish knight…who knew the secrets of her heart, as well as the secrets of her body. And who was also the father of the child she held in her arms. _Their_ child; conceived outside of the holy bond of marriage, but conceived by nothing but the purest love…which to Sybil, was far holier.

"Meet your daughter," she murmured to him at last, smiling as brought their child between them.

He looked down at the babe again, and sucked in a deep breath. "She's so beautiful…" he reverently whispered. She could tell he wanted to hold her, but his hands were shaking so that he didn't seem to trust himself.

"She has your eyes," Sybil whispered.

He looked up at her and gave a soft chuckle. "You have blue eyes too, my love."

"But not like hers," Sybil insisted. "They're your eyes…and she's strong too, just like her father."

"Like her mother," he now insisted, before leaning in to brush his lips against hers once again.

Sybil watched as he brought a finger to gently trace the baby's cheek, gasping at how soft her skin felt. Sybil giggled and encouraged him to cup her head, which he did, though still with tentative movements. The child opened her eyes, and looked upon the face of her father for a moment, before yawning once again and closing them. But it was enough for Tom to gasp and cry anew as he chuckled, nodding his head and conceding with Sybil that yes, she did have his eyes.

"What shall we name her?" Sybil asked, her hand joining his and entwining their fingers together as they cradled their sleeping daughter.

Tom stiffened then at her question. Sybil was surprised by the change in him and looked at him and could see the pain and the reluctance on his face as the harsh light of reality forced his way back into their lives.

"The Duke will name her," he muttered.

Sybil frowned. "He'll have nothing to do with her."

Tom sighed and shook his head. "He's your husband, Sybil—"

"Who told me so himself that he wouldn't have anything to do with a girl." She clutched her baby a little closer to her body at the memory of that conversation. The Duke wasn't interested in daughters; he only cared about having a son and heir. Yet she had a feeling that even if the child were a boy, her husband would still have very little to do with him. The Duke wasn't cruel, but he wasn't the warmest of men, either. "He might be present at the christening, but other than that…he will leave me completely on my own to raise and educate her, freeing himself to the pleasures of King John's court."

Tom snorted at this, and Sybil knew there was no love lost between the Irishman and the Lackland king. She felt the same way.

"He still needs an heir…" Tom murmured after a moment.

"He may not get one," Sybil simply replied. And to be quite honest, she hoped and prayed he wouldn't. While she would love a son just as deeply as she loved her daughter, Sybil knew that a boy would be claimed by the Duke as his own…even if he weren't. And more than likely…he wouldn't be.

Sybil soon learned early in her marriage that her husband preferred the company of…well, not gentlewomen. And the truth of the matter was, they hadn't shared a bed in over two years. But the servants turned a blind eye to this obvious fact—that their mistress was with child when their master had been in Winchester since the previous Christmas. And Sybil had no doubt that the Duke was well aware that the babe was not his, but again…all that mattered was a boy, even if the boy was a bastard, a boy could still take on the mantle of the Duke's son and heir.

But a girl…well, Sybil again reminded herself that her husband was not a cruel man, and would not point fingers and cast the both of them to the wolves; he would give the child the protection of his name, but that was all. He would not be involved in her life…which, as odd as it was, was a strange blessing.

Her husband was in Winchester, and there he would happily remain for a great bulk of the year, leaving his wife to manage their country estate, raising her daughter with the help of the castle's servants…and the knight who was the child's true father, both by blood, and by love.

"She is ours," Sybil stated quite firmly. "Yours will be the face she will know and love, so it is only right that you…her _father_, help me name her."

A shaky breath escaped his lungs, and with tears filling his eyes once again, he nodded his head in agreement. "And I vow to her, as I vowed to you, to protect you both with my life, to willingly lay it down to keep you…and her, safe from all dangers in this world and the next, and to devote every waking minute to your happiness."

Sybil sniffed back the tears that were already running down her cheeks, and without hesitation, cupped her brave knight's face and brought his lips back to hers, kissing him deeply and fiercely, pouring all the love she felt in her heart for him into that kiss, and feeling all of his love returned.

Someday, they would be a family, a "proper family" as seen fitting in the eyes of man.

But in the eyes of heaven, she knew they already were, and they would forever be.

* * *

_London, 1564_

The wax of the seal still felt warm in the palm of her hand. She paused before opening the tower door that would take her from the Queen's private chambers to the servant's quarters below, making sure no one was following her, before proceeding down the spiral steps, one hand gripping the stone wall as it was terribly dark.

She paused after she had taken a few steps. What was that that she had just heard?

Gripping the sealed scroll which she carried a bit tighter, she continued her journey, her ears listening at every sound around her.

She held her breath. Someone was there, she could hear breathing!

A hand suddenly covered her mouth, blocking her scream, but instead of panicking, she moved her elbow as if to slam it into her attacker's ribs. He must have sensed what she was going to do, because he twisted his body away, giving her now the opportunity to withdraw the small, jeweled dagger she kept hidden in her bodice and press the blade against the man's throat.

Her attacker's reaction was not the typical sort one would expect.

He was laughing. "Very good, milady," he chuckled.

Sybil groaned and lowered the dagger. "You fool! Are you mad!?" she hissed. "I could have _killed_ you!"

Tom looked more amused than worried. "You'd have nicked me, perhaps, but not kill me."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "You are frightfully full of yourself," she muttered, sheathing the dagger once again in her bodice and purposefully ignoring the fact that his eyes were lingering there. "Well?" she asked with some exasperation. "Do you have something for me?"

His eyes returned to hers and Sybil felt her face flush at the rather cheeky way his eyebrow lifted at her question. He chuckled and then reached into a pocket inside his tunic to withdraw a small envelope. Sybil reached for it, but he was faster, lifting it just out of her reach and looking at her expectantly. "Not so fast, milady; surely you have something for _me_ as well?"

Sybil pressed her lips together, just knowing he was enjoying watching her squirm. She sighed and held out the sealed scroll she had been carrying. "Be careful with that," she told him as tentatively placed the scroll in his hand. "If anyone finds you with it—"

"Would you shed tears for me?" Tom asked her, cocksure amusement in his tone and a mischievous wink in his eye. Sybil simply groaned and tapped her foot as she waited for him to finally give her the promised envelope. He grinned and finally relented, to which Sybil snatched it and like her dagger, also tucked the letter into her bodice.

His amused expression changed momentarily, and grew somewhat serious. "You weren't seen by anyone—?"

"Of course I wasn't!" she muttered, rather irritably. "I'm always careful…which is why the Queen and your master, your _true master_, trust me!"

"Aye, I believe you, but Norfolk has his own network of spies—"

"You have more to worry about with Norfolk than I," Sybil interrupted. "Perhaps I should ask _you_ that question? Are _you_ sure you weren't seen—"

"How can I be?" Tom chuckled. "When I'm still in Spain?"

Sybil fixed him with a look; she didn't like how "at ease" he seemed to be about the possibility that he might be caught and punished. "You shouldn't joke about such things," she muttered. "You know what they do to traitors."

"Traitor to whom?" he asked. "Like you, I also serve the Queen, through Walsingham, so the only hurt party would be Norfolk, but he doesn't hold the final card, does he?"

Sybil shook her head. "Norfolk is a powerful man, in league with the Spanish! Just because he doesn't rule England doesn't mean he can't kill you!"

He gazed at her and Sybil felt her face flush. He did enjoy teasing her when they had these little meetings, but she also noticed how tenderly he sometimes looked at her, a look that caused her breathing to quicken and her heartbeat to race.

"…So you would miss me, if something happened?"

Sybil's fist pounded against his chest and she turned to go, but he was faster, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back, until she was flush against him, causing her to gasp. She looked up at him with wide eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but lifted a finger to his lips to indicate that she should be quiet…and quiet she was, as they heard footsteps approaching.

Tom drew them further into the shadows, but there wasn't a great of space to hide. Sybil felt her back pressed against the stone wall, while Tom shielded her front with his body, his dark tunic and cloak providing them more camouflage should someone pass. They held their breath and Sybil pressed her palms against his chest, feeling his heart race beneath her fingertips as the footsteps and voices of two servant girls were heard…followed by a door opening and shutting just a few feet away.

Sybil let out a great breath, her body sagging slightly against the wall. But the tension she had felt when she feared that they would be caught didn't go away completely…not when he remained so close, his warm breath against her cheek.

"I…I think they're gone…" she murmured, her eyes floating up to his through her lashes.

He looked down at her and nodded his head…and much to her disappointment, stepped away. She swallowed, straightened herself and ran her hand over the fabric of her gown. "So…" she mumbled, her face hot. "Norfolk still thinks you're in Spain?"

Tom nodded his head in answer. "He does, and to keep the ruse from being discovered, my ship leaves at sundown—"

Sybil's eyes widened. "You're going back!? But…but you only just returned…" her voice trailed off, and she quickly looked down, embarrassed by her outburst and what it might have revealed.

He looked down at her again, amusement in his eyes once more, but there was something else too. Something perhaps that was similar to what she was feeling.

"A spy's work is never done," he sighed, before giving her a cheeky smile. "You should know that."

But she wasn't a spy the same way he was. She was a messenger really, the one her Majesty trusted to go and retrieve whatever information Walsingham's men brought forth. She had the Queen's protection should she get caught, but Tom was truly risking his life with every move that he made. Despite the words he had spoken earlier, if Norfolk or any of the Queen's enemies found him out, not only would Walsingham be forced to pretend he knew nothing, but they would stop at nothing to torture the information out of him.

"Would you miss me?" he asked, his voice soft but clear, a slight teasing edge to it. Sybil's face burned at his question, and he turned her eyes to deny her answer.

Instead, something that no doubt could be labeled as "petty jealousy" came out. "Perhaps you're glad to be going back," she muttered. "I'm sure you were quite popular with the ladies of the Spanish court."

He chuckled (the nerve), and she closed her eyes and inwardly groaned at how petulant she had sounded. However, before she could attempt to slip away, he lifted a hand and pressed it against the wall just over her shoulder, cornering her in a manner of speaking, but by no means making her feel as if she were in danger.

…Well, that perhaps wasn't _entirely_ true.

"They are lovely, I'll not deny that," he murmured, his eyes drifting from hers down to her lips and then back. "…But none are as beautiful as you, Lady Sybil."

Sybil's eyes widened and her mouth fell open. His eyes fell to her lips once again, and Sybil couldn't help but gaze at his own.

"You should probably go," he whispered after a moment. She looked back into his eyes, a feeling of disappointment filling her. But she knew he was right, of course. She needed to deliver his message and he needed to sneak back to the port so he could sail back to Spain. But even so…

"We've conducted our business as we've been called to do," he continued, as if to explain why they should part.

She mutely nodded her head in agreement. "True…so…are you satisfied then?"

He tilted his head slightly and looked back at her with what could only be described as "curious amusement". "A very interesting question," he murmured. "Ask me that again."

She blushed. "Are you satisfiemmmMMMM!"

His mouth had captured hers and Sybil whimpered against his lips, before moaning and opening her mouth, welcoming his tongue and weaving her arms around his neck and shoulders, gasping as she felt his body mold against hers, pushing her back against the wall while his own hands cradled her face.

"Tom," she panted as she felt his mouth drag across her jaw, down to her neck, kissing and sucking the flesh, before going to her ear and nipping at the lobe.

"God, I've missed you," he groaned, his hands roaming down her body. Sybil whimpered in agreement, arching to his touch. Her own hands clung to his shoulders, pulling him even closer, needing to feel more of him.

"I…have a right mind—ooohhh yes," she moaned as he sucked her pulse point, while squeezing one of her breasts through her gown. "…I have a right mind to…to issue a complaint with Walsingham for keeping you away for so long."

She felt his chuckle reverberate through her skin. "I'd like to see that," he murmured as his lips began to kiss the swell of her breasts. "I have no doubt you would bring him to his knees…" he began to sink to his. "As you do with all men."

Sybil's breath was coming in short pants as she felt Tom's hands move beneath her skirts and run up the length of her legs, smiling to herself at the sound of his own surprised gasp. "You're not wearing any stockings?"

Her cheeks were bright red, but they held no embarrassment. "There didn't seem to be a point…since we were meeting."

He growled his approval. "I wonder what her Majesty would think? Knowing that one of her virtuous ladies-in-waiting—"

"Seeing as how her Majesty knows it is with _you_ whom I conduct business, I can't imagine that she isn't aware that my virtue has long since been compromised."

Tom lifted an eyebrow at this. He did have a bit of a "scandalous" reputation, and she had been "warned" by some of the other ladies to beware of his Irish charm. Yet despite his cheeky manner, Sybil had long since learned that he was a good and trustworthy man. And he hadn't taken anything from her that she wasn't willing to give.

While the lust still reflected in his eyes, there was tenderness there as well. "Perhaps she will take pity on us and order us to be married before the year is out."

Her heart leapt at his words. She couldn't deny, she had the same hope. If one of the Queen's ladies was unmarried, it was the Queen who would find them a "suitable husband", though Sybil prayed that because of the duties Tom was performing for her Majesty's protection from her enemies, even though he was man without a title, the Queen would overlook such things and grant them permission to marry. Because truly, there was no other man Sybil desired…or loved.

"OH!" Sybil gasped, drawn back to the present as she felt one of Tom's hands move higher up her legs and brush the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. He groaned as he squeezed her leg, before pressing his face against her skirts and breathing in her heated scent.

"Too long…" he muttered against the fabric, his hands moving to her hips and pushing her back against the wall as he bunched up her skirts so there could be no barrier. "Too, too long!"

"TOM!" Sybil gasped as his lips found its goal, his tongue dipping into the heated pink folds of her core and tasting her once again. He drew one of her legs closer and encouraged her to drape it over his shoulder. Sybil did just that and writhed in pleasure as he made love to her with his mouth. One hand fell to his head and he seemed to growl in approval as her fingers dug into his scalp while his clever tongue circled her clit. "Ooooh Tom…Tom please…" she loved it when he pleasured her like this, but time was of the essence and right now, more than anything, she wanted to feel him inside her once again. "Tom…please, I need you…"

Her fingers threaded in his hair and she tugged just slightly to pull him away. Despite the haze of lust in his eyes, he seemed to understand, and so he quickly stood up, his hands gripping her hips before moving around and cupping her rump, squeezing the flesh and then wasting no time in lifting her off the ground.

Sybil kissed him, with all the passion that stormed inside her. She gripped his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist, his hands fumbling with the ties of his breeches, but finally managing free himself, causing her to shudder as she felt the thick head of his cock nuzzle her inner thigh. "Please," she moaned against his mouth, and Tom simply grunted before driving himself inside her in a one hard, deep thrust.

Sybil's head dipped back against the stone wall, biting her lip to keep from screaming. These steps were used by the servants; they could easily be caught by some passing chambermaid. Tom tugged at her bodice, his mouth ravishing an exposed nipple. Sybil's arms hugged his head to her chest, and she tried to meet and match his thrusts as best she could. His movements were growing faster and faster, becoming erratic, and Sybil could sense that he was close. He lifted his head and kissed and sucked at her neck again, before reaching up with one hand and cupping her face and drawing her mouth back to his.

"No one but you…no one but you…" he repeated over and over as he kissed her. Sybil moaned and gasped, words failing her as the pleasure mounted. She nodded her head, because she felt the same way. _I love no other, I've been with no other, I'll never be with no other…because there is _no other_, but you._

"TOM!" she gasped and his mouth covered hers, swallowing her scream as the pleasure took her at last. She felt his own body tremble and knew that it was taking him as well. She didn't want to let him go (in any sense) but she loosened her hold on him just enough so he could pull himself out before it was too late. Tom grunted and then sagged against her body. Sybil held him and ran her fingers over and across his shoulders and up into his hair, a loving, soothing gesture…one that she imagined a wife might do for her husband.

She pressed her lips against his ear then. "No one but you…" she whispered back.

Tom lifted his head from her shoulder and looked into her eyes, and the smile that curled at his lips wasn't cheeky or arrogant or anything like that.

It was loving.

* * *

_Downton Place, 1811_

She clutched his coat a little closer to her body, as if the very fabric possessed his warmth. Though no matter how hard she tried, she knew nothing would compare to the feel of his arms around her.

"_I'll not allow it! I'll not allow my daughter to throw away her life!"_

Cold tears stung her eyes as her father's words echoed over and over.

She knew something was wrong based on the way his shoulders were slumped when he exited her father's study. She had been pacing outside, biting her nails down to the quick, trying to calm herself, reminding herself over and over that it was going to be alright. Her father adored Tom! Thought him _"clever"_ and _"full of promise",_ the exact words she had heard him speak over and over whenever the Irishman's name came up. _"We'd be utterly lost without him—best estate agent we could hope for."_

But apparently, that was all Tom Branson was to her father; an estate agent, a servant, "clever" and "full of promise" so long as he "remained in his place".

Sybil's hopes of marrying the man she loved were shattered when Tom's eyes found hers. He looked angry, upset, hurt, and…defeated. Something she had never seen in him before, something that caused her stomach to twist terribly at the sight. She moved towards him, her mouth opening to ask what had happened, but before she had even managed to take a step, her father's harsh bark, _"SYBIL!"_ stilled her feet.

It wasn't until that moment that Sybil found her father imposing. He was tall, yes, taller than Tom, but not muscular, and his face always seemed kind, and whenever he spoke to the servants, his tone was always calm and gentle. But right now, as she gazed up at him, she felt as if she were looking at a stranger, a man who had her father's face but who _wasn't_ her father. Even as a child, she couldn't recall a moment where he struck such fear into her heart.

"_Get in here…"_ he had practically growled, his voice chilling her heart.

She didn't dare disobey him, yet at the same time she felt her spirit being tugged in the opposite direction. She didn't want to go to her father, she wanted to go to Tom, to the man she loved, to be held in his strong arms and comforted by whatever ill had fallen upon their world so suddenly.

But she obeyed, as a good child should, despite the cry of her rebellious heart. Her father remained where he stood, his body filling the doorway as he held his hand out to her, but his eyes harsh and focused on the man just behind her. Sybil turned her head to look back at Tom, who was glaring back at her father, his jaw tight and his chin lifted, yet despite the harsh look on his face, Sybil could see the pain and disappointment in his eyes, eyes that were trying desperately to not shed a tear.

"_SYBIL!"_ her father barked once again, and she ducked into the study then, her father shutting the door behind her, and shutting Tom away from her life…forever.

That was what she quickly learned, anyway.

She didn't understand. Why was her father suddenly so against Tom? He lacked property and a title, yes, but he had once said to her _"I'll make something of myself",_ and apparently her father seemed to believe that too…so long as whatever future Tom sought didn't involve one of his daughters.

The next hour was spent with her shrinking in a chair while her father railed against her, against Tom, against them both. He blustered words of disappointment, anger, betrayal even; he accused her and Tom of going behind his back, of being "improper", though she was grateful he didn't go into details or demand that she explain herself.

The only "liberties" Tom had taken with her had been holding her in his arms, twining their fingers together, and kissing, though that was all.

Of course, Society would say that was "more than enough". She wasn't "damaged goods" entirely, but the fact that she had allowed him to hold her intimately and kiss her would be enough to make tongues wag and thus lose her good reputation…which would make her utterly "un-marriagable" (at least in the eyes of whoever her father preferred she marry).

In the end, her father blamed it all on her naïve nature; she was only seventeen and "didn't understand". He also blamed Tom, calling him a "rake" for preying upon her youth and innocence. Tom was dismissed from her father's services, and told to leave the grounds and village at once, upon the threat of being arrested. Before Sybil could utter a word of protest, her father then proceeded to tell her that tomorrow she would be leaving for London to go and spend some time with her aunt—how long, her father didn't say, but Sybil couldn't help but feel as if she were being banished.

The man she loved was gone. Her life, as far as she was concerned, was over.

Sybil sniffled and looked down at her feet, at the trunks that were being brought out by the servants and placed before the carriage that would take her to London. She had already mumbled her goodbyes to her mother and sisters, and her father was busy speaking with the driver. She looked around the yard, at the dew-covered grass and the flowers that were starting to sprout from the cold earth. She looked beyond the garden to the large English oaks that she remembered running around as a child, and the nearby brook where she was often scolded for getting her stockings and dress damp. And beyond the old stone fence of Downton Place, the village that lay beneath, the people and buildings so familiar to her, the only world she had ever really known. She was being forced to leave it all behind, because she had dared give her heart to a man "beneath her".

At least with Tom, as nervous as she had been, she had had a choice. But now her choice…all her choices…were being taken away.

_I should have gone after him; I shouldn't have listened when Papa told me to go to my room. I should have fought. Why didn't I? Why didn't I leave? Why does Tom think I'm brave when clearly I'm not? _

"Sybil?"

She lifted her eyes to her father, who was standing in front of her now, his arms clasped tightly behind his back, his chest puffed up and his chin raised. He looked very stern, though there seemed to be something else in his eyes. Regret, perhaps?

"I've given the driver instructions, and this is for your aunt," he explained, handing her an envelope. "See that she gets that; it will explain everything."

Would it? Explain to her aunt why she was suddenly her jailer? Why her youngest niece was coming to stay, a list of the many sins which her father, and no doubt all of Society, believed she had committed for desiring to marry the estate agent and giving him her heart?

"Best be going," her father gruffly told her. "It's a long journey to London."

Sybil was so numb she barely nodded her head. She moved past her father then to climb into the carriage, but just before she disappeared, he reached out and touched her shoulder, though it was light and delicate.

"I…" he paused, and Sybil looked at him, and again, she saw that look in his eyes, that look of pain and possible regret. Was he having second thoughts? The good, decent man she had always known, not this cold, angry stranger who wore her father's face—was he going to tell her she could stay? That he would at the very least think about Tom's offer for her hand?

But his hand fell away and his posture stiffened once again. "I know you may not believe me," he sighed. "But…this is for the best."

He may as well have slapped her.

To deny her the man she loves, to send her away with no knowledge of when she could come home, and now to mask everything as "being for her own good"…

She never felt more alone or unsure of herself.

She drew in a deep breath to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. She would not cry, not in front of him. She was broken, yes, but God help her, she would not show it. Without another word or glance, Sybil climbed inside the carriage and shut the door, staring straight ahead and not blinking. Her father cleared his throat, muttered something to the driver, and the carriage lurched forward.

Only when the carriage climbed the hill, and Downton Place was behind her and the village ahead of her, with the Abbey's spires rising high above the treetops overhead…only then did she allow the tears to fall at last.

Her fingers trembled as they clung to the frayed edges of his coat. It was an old coat of his, one that didn't fit any more because the arms were too big for the sleeves. Sybil remembered blushing when he told her that, and her eyes immediately fell to his muscular forearms, her heartbeat increasing at the sight. She had accompanied him on his duties, something she had started doing when he was first hired by her father and she was barely sixteen. She had always worried that he would think her a terrible bother, but he always greeted her with a kind smile and a teasing bow of the head that left her giggling, and so it became part of her "routine", to join him on these treks to the various farms, to hear him talk with the people, and watch him work alongside them if the need arose. And one day, a storm came up, and the rain began to pour and both she and Tom sought shelter in an abandoned woodshed not far from the estate agent's cottage. He noticed she was shivering, and without a second's thought, withdrew his coat and put it around her, asking her to keep it…and she had.

This worn, frayed coat was all she had left of him. She knew, even without seeing it, that the estate agent's cottage was empty. After being insulted so by her father, he would leave. Perhaps he was even glad to be free of her? While he was good at his job, she knew it wasn't what he wanted to do with his life. He wanted to return to Ireland, he wanted to work his own land and live his own life where the only master he kept was himself, and the only family he served was his own.

She found herself smiling and sighing rather dreamily as he spoke of such things. Imagine, being independent like that? Freely living one's life as one wished? Yet she had confessed to him after he had told her this that while she longed to see his beloved Ireland, she was a little afraid at the thought of leaving everything she knew behind. He had smiled and took her face in his wonderfully large, strong hands, and placed a loving kiss on her forehead, before assuring her that they would be back to visit and often, and that he had no doubt she would conquer her fears because _"you're a great deal stronger than you give yourself credit for…"_

But apparently not. If she were what he said, she would have fought her father…she would have run after Tom, she would have stood up for the both of them and tell her father that he could posture all he wanted, it wasn't going to make any difference—she would not give Tom Branson up!

But she hadn't. Instead she wept for her lost future as the lock turned in her door.

_How he must hate me,_ she found herself thinking. She hugged herself tighter, closing her eyes and trying her hardest to pretend that it was his arms enfolding her, but that only saddened her further, as it was a bitter reminder that she would never feel his arms again. Her face crumpled, and she lowered her head, her hands rising to cover her tear-swollen eyes and she very well may have remained in that state all the way to London if the carriage hadn't come to a sudden halt.

Sybil gasped and spiraled forward, her hands bracing the empty seat across from her, catching her from falling forward onto the carriage floor. What on earth had happened? The horses gave a distressed whiny and the driver was shouting, "GET OUT OF THE WAY!" which no doubt was distressing the horses even more.

Confused, Sybil poked her head out of the carriage window, trying to who the driver was cursing, but the due to the angle of the carriage, she couldn't see more than the agitated head of one of the horses.

But in the end, she didn't need to see who it was, because her breath caught in her throat at the sound of the Irish accent she loved so dearly.

"_Sybil!?_ Are you in there?"

"TOM!"

She nearly fell to the ground in her efforts to scramble out of the carriage. The driver was shouting things at her, telling her to stay in, but Sybil ignored him and came around the carriage, her eyes widening as at last, she took in the sight of her beloved, her cheeks flooding with color at his rather…_undressed_ appearance. He wore no jacket, no waistcoat; simply an off-color shirt that was barely tucked in, the collar open and displaying more of his chest than she had ever seen. His face was red and covered in sweat, and he looked as if perhaps he had just come running from wherever he had been in an effort to…to find her.

Tom's eyes found hers, and Sybil's heart soared at the small smile that lifted at the corners of his mouth. "I'm not too late…" he whispered, and Sybil swallowed back the tears that threatened to fall at his sweet words. No…no he was just in time!

"Miss, I must insist—" the poor driver attempted to reason, but Sybil didn't pay any attention. Instead, she gave a joyful gasp, before rushing to Tom, her bonnet falling and her hair flying free as she launched herself into his arms and cried out happily at the feel of his own engulfing her and sweeping her up off the ground. She clung to his shoulders, laughing as he spun them, before turning her face to his and happily welcoming his eager kisses, completely unaware of the rest of the world around them. Because really…_he_ was her world, and had been for quite some time.

When their lips parted, Tom finally set her feet back on the earth, but he didn't dare let her go (and she continued to hold him close as well). "I thought you'd gone?" Sybil asked, looking up at him and telling her heart over and over that what she was seeing was true—he was _here_, he hadn't left.

"I couldn't leave without seeing you again," he groaned, lowering his head until their brows touched. "I was staying at the Grantham Arms; the local magistrate came to the agent's cottage and forced me out, but I managed to convince him to let me stay in the village for at least one more night."

At the mention of him being turned out of his cottage, Sybil felt her face crumple with guilt and shame. "Oh Tom, I'm so sorry—"

"Sybil—"

"No, this is all my fault! I should have fought back! I should have left with you that same hour, I shouldn't have let Papa get away with saying what he did, and I'm so deeply ashamed of my behavior; you say I'm a free-spirit and I had hoped that was true, but I'm not as brave as you think, and I don't blame you if you're angry—"

He stopped her words with his mouth, and Sybil didn't protest. She felt her body melt against his, and with a sigh, she welcomed the taste and feel of his tongue with her own. Who knows how much time had passed while they kissed? She was only made aware that the world continued to move around them when she heard the carriage driver give a rather loud (and annoyed) "Ahem!"

"Miss…" he tried once again. "We must be going—please," he held his hand out to her to help her back into the carriage, but Sybil shook her head, her arms holding fast to Tom (and his own tightening around her).

Tom looked down at her, though he eyed the driver with some wariness (and perhaps a bit of warning if the man tried to pull her away). "I was going to come back to Downton Place to try and reason with your father, but then one of the kitchen maids from the house came to the inn and said that you were being sent away…?"

So that explained his sudden, disheveled state. Whoever the kitchen maid was, Sybil sent up a thankful prayer to her. "Papa," she began. "He's sending me to London, to stay with my aunt…for how long, I don't know."

Tom stiffened slightly, and then moved his hands to cup her face. "Is this what you want?"

"NO!" Tom had barely finished his question. "No, no, I…I don't want to go to London, I…" she looked up at him, tears clouding her vision. Surely he knew?

Tom's smile was tender…and hopeful. "Do you want to come with me to Ireland?"

The driver hadn't missed that. "Miss, I _really_ must insist that we go _now_—"

"Do you love me, Sybil? Do you still want to marry me?" Tom pursued, ignoring the agitated driver and looking deeply into her eyes.

She did love him, and yes, yes she still wanted to marry him. But of course, before everything fell apart, she still thought that her life—their lives—would remain there, in Downton Village, that she would simply become the estate agent's wife and go and live in his cottage. And…perhaps one day, they would go to Ireland as she knew Tom wanted to do, but it wouldn't be so soon…

But then everything changed yesterday when her father forbade the match and ordered Tom to leave at once.

No doubt her hesitance had worried him, because she felt his body stiffen once again, and his hands fell away from her face. "I know this isn't exactly how you imagined it would be," he murmured. "And I make no lie to you, Sybil. While I do have some money saved up, I'm by no means a wealthy man. I'm not and never will be 'landed gentry' like your father, the best I can hope for is being a farmer and owning my own land and providing whatever it yields to my family and the generations that follow. But I'll never be rich, and things _will be_ difficult in the beginning."

His hands reached forward and gently enfolded hers. "Marriage to me means living a very different life from the one you've known. It means I'll not be able to provide you with money for dress fittings, or going to town to attend fancy balls or parties. And…it might also mean that you'll have to work as well; we'll not have any servants to look after us, we'll be solely responsible for own meals, for cleaning and mending, for keeping our home warm and dry, it will not be easy, Sybil."

She swallowed and found herself wondering again about what he had said to her once, about thinking her "brave". But was she? Was she brave enough to face this new life, a life in another land and surrounded by people she didn't know? And her family…if she went with Tom, her father would turn her out, disown her completely, she'd be estranged from them for the rest of their lives!

"But Sybil…while…while I know it's not much compared to all of that…I…I can promise you this," he paused and brought their clasped hands to his lips. "I love you, utterly and completely my darling. I love you and I can promise you a lifetime of that; I will also promise to strive and be worthy of you every day and night for the rest of my life, and to devote every waking minute to your happiness…if you'll still have me."

There was genuine concern in his eyes. He looked worried, that the odds were stacked against him, and that it would simply be too much to take.

It was a lot, a great, great deal to consider. She would be leaving her whole world if she followed her heart, and quite possibly, never seeing any of it ever again.

…But looking up at him now, into those blue-green eyes that she loved so dearly…she knew that she would be losing a great deal more, if she climbed back into that carriage and proceeded on her way.

"Yes."

Tom's eyes widened and the driver even gasped at the small, simple word.

"Yes?" Tom whispered, hope bubbling up in his throat as he repeated the word.

Sybil smiled and blinked back the tears before nodding her head. "Yes," she managed to croak before the emotion took hold. "Yes!"

Tom threw his head back and gave what could only be described as a triumphant roar, before sweeping her up into his arms again and spinning and kissing her as he had done when they were first reunited.

It was daunting, this unknown future that lay before them. But deep in her heart, Sybil knew she had made the right decision, and finally…for the first time, truly, she felt brave.

* * *

_Downton Abbey, 1914_

The party wouldn't begin for several more hours, but already there were guests arriving, sitting in the drawing room, making small talk. Both Mary and Edith were much more gifted at this "talent" than she, yet it was she that their guests kept asking questions, wanting to know what she thought of her first official London Season, asking about her ball, and how many invitations she had received, and who she had danced with, and so on and so forth, and really…it was quite exhausting.

As soon as a lull in the conversation presented itself, Sybil took the opportunity to create an excuse and disappear, not caring if later she would receive a reprimand from her parents. She just needed to step away and get some fresh air. Good heavens, there were far more important things to discuss than "who danced with whom, and what were they wearing?" Didn't anyone follow politics? What about the Archduke's assignation? And the growing tensions on the continent? What about the possible rumor that Britain itself might be pulled into war? But no, instead of sitting and discussing these very real and life-changing topics, they were having a garden party.

Sybil rolled her eyes and shook her head, retreating outdoors where she knew their guests wouldn't find her (at least not until the party was underway). The various tents for the garden party had been constructed days in advance, and now from what she could see, hall boys and housemaids were busily setting up tables and chairs for guests to sit, while the kitchen maids were beginning to bring the various cakes and sandwiches that would be served to the special serving tent that the footmen would use.

She didn't want to get into anybody's way, but at the same time, Sybil found herself yearning to go and join them and see if there was anything she could do to help.

And then the familiar color of dark, forest green caught her eye…and a grin quickly spread across her face at the sight of the broad-shouldered figure that was her dear friend. He was helping with setting up chairs, and Sybil couldn't help herself, she crossed the yard quickly to join him.

"I see Carson managed to find some work for you to do!" she called out as she approached.

Branson lifted his head and smiled back at her, a smile that caused warmth to flood through her body.

"To be fair, I volunteered," he sheepishly admitted. "But…mainly because there's only so much I can take when it comes to 'playing host' for all those other chauffeurs."

Sybil couldn't help but laugh at that. "Gracious, I never realized it, but you're right! Does this mean your cottage is overrun at the moment?"

Branson shook his head. "Some are in the Servant's Hall having a spot of tea, while the others are having a smoke. But being Downton's chauffeur, it's my 'duty' to…more or less, look after them."

"There's something I doubt was included in the job description," Sybil giggled again.

Branson smiled and turned to fetch another chair. "So what brings you out here before everybody else?"

"The same reason as you," Sybil sighed. "For me, I was getting rather tired of being asked about my Season."

"And how was it?" he asked her, laughing at the fierce look she gave him. "In my defense, we haven't really had a chance to talk about it since you returned."

That was true, Sybil thought. She had missed their conversations, missed popping down to the garage and sitting on the work bench in a special spot he had cleared off just for her, talking about whatever books they were reading, or articles she had read in the newspaper and listening to his thoughts, opinions, and asking him questions when she didn't understand something. She didn't realize how deeply she had missed their times together until…they had been parted. And it was strange, because while she had truly missed Gwen, there was this odd…ache…where Branson was concerned.

"Well…you'll be pleased to know that I 'behaved myself' and didn't sneak out to any rallies." She had meant it as a joke, but she saw him flinch at her words, and immediately regretted them. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "That was in poor taste."

He didn't say anything, and a rare, awkward silence fell over them. Branson cleared his throat then. "So…what exactly do posh people do at a garden party?"

He was trying to lighten things with his question, and she chose to play along.

"Well…there's music, but no dancing. There's food, but not a grand meal."

"Are there games?"

Sybil's brow furrowed. "No, not really. Mainly, people drink champagne and…wander around, talking to one another, and…" her frowned deepened. "It's…really, rather _boring_, actually."

Branson threw his head back and laughed and Sybil was soon joining him, finding the entire situation quite funny as well.

"Well…thank you, milady," he chuckled after a moment. "I don't feel so bad about playing host to all those chauffeurs now."

Sybil rolled her eyes but continued to giggle. "Well, I confess, now that I've thought about it, I'm rather envious! I'd much rather spend time with you and your fellow chauffeurs."

Branson's laughing face changed slightly then, and Sybil felt her own cheeks grow hot suddenly. They both coughed slightly and looked down at the ground for a moment. "I wonder if any of them are as political as you…" Sybil found herself mumbling at random. She nibbled her bottom lip and looked up at her friend, who was still blushing but smiling again as he had been before.

"Oh, by the way, I started that book you recommended—"

"The Tenant of Wildfell Hall!?" Sybil gasped, her eyes widening and face brightening. Branson didn't read much in the way of novels, and he was always recommending books to her, so she was glad she could now do the same for him. "Do you like it? How far have you gotten? It's a wonderful read, I think; she's not as dearly remembered, but Anne Bronte I must say is my favorite—" she paused, realizing she was rambling and blushed deeply. "Sorry."

He chuckled and shook his head. "Don't be, and I look forward to talking with you about it when we have the chance. And to answer your questions, I am enjoying it, and I like this Gilbert Markham; I like how he's willing to stand up for Helen when others look down on her simply because she paints as a means to support herself and her son, and not as some 'posh hobby'…" his voice trailed off as if he seemed to realize what he was saying, or rather…to whom he was saying it. Sybil blushed as well, but by no means did she take offense to his words.

"I agree," she quickly answered before he himself felt the need to start apologizing. "There's no shame in hard work…or turning something you're good at into a trade…and even better if the something you're good it is also something you enjoy."

"Aye, I agree, but at the same time…there's no shame or harm in simply…enjoying doing something you enjoy doing…I mean I like to write once and a while—"

"You do?" Sybil asked, finding this fascinating. She didn't know that! While she had voiced to him once before that she hoped he would go into politics someday, she had no idea that Branson was a writer! "What do you write? Is it related to politics? Have you ever thought about sending it to a publisher?"

She was rambling again, but she couldn't help herself. She was excited to learn this and wanted desperately to know more! However, it was at that moment that Thomas walked by, giving Branson a bit of a sneer, and muttering, "Best to finish your work, Mr. Branson, before Mr. Carson catches you."

Sybil blushed then, realizing that while she was enjoying their chat, she was interrupting Branson's work and after everything that had happened in regards to the Count, she didn't want to ever endanger his job again. "We'll talk later," she whispered, giving him an apologetic smile, before turning and stepping away.

However, she hadn't made it but a few steps, before she heard Branson calling back to her. "Milady!" he hissed. "Has there been any more news for Gwen?"

Sybil glanced around, wanting to make sure Thomas, or anybody else for that matter, wasn't spying on them. "Not yet," she sighed. "I'm trying to remain hopeful, but…it's the waiting that I can't stand, I must confess. How do people endure it?"

He gave a wry smile at her words. "Sometimes we don't have a choice."

She felt a little embarrassed then. "No, of course," she murmured, looking down.

"But that doesn't mean it's any easier," he quickly added, and she glanced up at him and smiled, thankful for his words. "Sometimes you just…have to make yourself patient," he sighed. "And be willing to wait for when the right opportunity comes."

Sybil tilted her head and examined him. "You sound as if you speak from experience. Would you call yourself a 'patient' man, Branson?"

He chuckled and looked down for a moment. "I don't know about that, but…well, I suppose it depends, really."

She lifted a curious brow. "On what?" And suddenly that strange, wonderful warmth began to surge through her again, especially as he lifted his head and held her gaze before answering.

"On whether I think whatever it is, is worth waiting for."

* * *

_Today_

"Hello?"

Sybil gasped and whirled around at the sound of the voice—_his voice_—her hands still clutching her purse and coat tightly to her body, and perhaps holding them even tighter now as if they were a shield.

He clearly recognized her distress, because he held up his hands and took a step away from her. "It's alright…I won't hurt you," he promised, and even though he was a complete stranger, she believed him.

_But he's NOT a complete stranger…you…you DO know him…_

But how was that possible? Until tonight she had never met this man before, and yet…she knew his face, his voice, his eyes…

A deep blush flooded her cheeks as she realized she knew him in many other intimate ways as well, and he knew her. She also knew his mind, his heart, his dreams…

She _knew_ him.

And he knew her.

She slowly began to lower her arms…and upon seeing that, he lowered his as well. He swallowed, and carefully took a tentative step towards her. "I…" he began but stopped himself, as if he too were trying to make sense of all of this as well. "I…" he began again. "I…I'm Tom."

She was already nodding her head. "I know," she whispered, and then looking back at him, murmured, "I'm Sybil."

He nodded in return. "I know," he answered, and despite the obvious confusion they were both feeling, there was something strangely wonderful and pleasant, saying and acknowledging that.

"This is mad, isn't it?"

Sybil nodded, but also found herself softly giggling. "It is..."

Tom started to smile then, and Sybil's heartbeat quickened.

"And yet…as mad as it is, I…I can't help but…believe…"

"I know," she whispered, and suddenly feeling so bold, began to step towards him.

Tom did the same, and soon they were both toe to toe, complete strangers and yet…not.

They didn't speak, they just looked at each other…and then, slowly, he began to lift his hand, hesitating for a moment until Sybil nodded her head granting him the permission he sought, and closed her eyes and let out a long, shaky breath when at least his hand caressed her cheek for the first time…as well as the millionth.

"It's you…" Tom whispered, his voice and his touch holding such reverence.

Sybil leaned into his touch, then opened her eyes at his voice. Those blue-green eyes that she knew by heart were shining with tears, similar to the ones that clouded her eyes. "You found me," she whispered back.

His other hand rose then to cup her other cheek. "We found each other," he murmured.

Sybil smiled and again, her eyes fluttered closed as she leaned into him, her body and heart knowing exactly what to do.

Tom sighed her name and her toes curled at the wonderful way it sounded, but that was nothing compared to the kiss that followed. His arms moved around her, pulling her closer, and Sybil's did the same, weaving around his shoulders, her hands sliding up into his hair, tilting her face and deepening the kiss even more.

Overhead, it began to snow. The flakes shimmered in the alley street light, reminding Sybil of stars, silently falling down from heaven.

Indeed, it felt as if heaven were smiling upon them…the two eternal lovers, who no matter the place or the time…_always_ found their way back to each other.

**~FINIS~**

* * *

_A few historical notes!_

_I am by no means a historian, and the history I used in this story is bare minimum at best. But just to be clear..._

_John (younger brother to Richard the Lionheart and made famous...or infamous, in the legend of Robin Hood) was King of England (1199-1214) and would go down in history as one of the Britain's worst monarchs. It was while he was reigning that the Magna Carta was written. Like many other English monarchs, John was not viewed with favor amongst the Irish, and also like the monarchs before and after his reign, invaded and fought the Irish, as well as used the Irish to fight in his various campaigns._

_Elizabeth I became Queen in 1558, succeeding her older sister Mary (aka "Bloody Mary") who was an ardant Catholic and whose husband, Philip II of Spain, had many allies in the English court, including the Duke of Norfolk, who plotted to have Elizabeth overthrown and/or assassinated. Francis Walsingham was one of Elizabeth's closest advisors, and who had many spies to protect the queen. In matters of religion and religious practice, Elizabeth, when compared to her siblings (her younger brother Edward VI was an ardant Protestant) was seen as being much more moderate and lenient to people on either side, though it cannot be denied that she would see herself (as did many of her peers and later historians) as a Protestant, too._

_The period known as "The Regency" began officially in 1811, when George III of England was deemed unfit to rule, and his son, the Prince Regent (later George IV) ruled as regent until his father's death in 1820 (after which he was crowned king). Though it was not mentioned, Tom and Sybil would have eloped to Gretna Green, on the Scottish border, where marriage laws were looser, meaning that a license was not required, and a couple could be "under age" (below 21). However, the laws would change later in the mid 19th century, where couples had to be residents of Scotland for a minimum of 21 days before being married, hence why Sybil and Tom's elopment plan in 1919 wouldn't have worked._

_And the day of the garden party, as seen in episode 1x07, was held on August 4, 1914, the day that Britian would officially declare war with Germany, thus pushing Britain into what would soon be known as "The Great War". Sybil briefly mentions the Archduke's assassination, which took place on June 28 of that same year, the catalyst for WWI._


End file.
